


Grave Meetings

by titC



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: A little whump, Feelings are had, Fire, Gen, M/M, a little fluff, graveyard, mild erotic moment, some burning, some flirting, some sulking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27165595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Frank's family and Matt's dad are buried in the same NY cemetery. They meet outside of their vigilante roles...
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 26
Kudos: 145
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Fratt Week, Marvel Fluff Bingo





	Grave Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> EXTREME THANKS to PixelByPixel who as always went above and beyond!!!
> 
> For Frattweek 3's prompt _grave_ , BadThingsBingo's prompt _dehydration_ , MarvelFluffBingo's prompt _holding hands_.
> 
> This fic was started for the prompt suit for FW2, except i only wrote one or two sentences then... fixed!

Red’s day suits are not the fancy kind. They’re obviously bought off the rack, have nondescript colors, and hide how built the guy is. Whether that’s on purpose or not, Frank has no idea. Or maybe it’s the way Red holds himself: in his little boy pajamas or the red Halloween getup, he looks… well, he looks big. Bigger than he actually is, in fact. It’s not really the bulk of his suit; it’s the elbows slightly out, the swagger, the confident way he moves. He’s strong, and he knows it.

But this is Red. His body is strong, sure, but his will is even stronger. Frank doesn’t know anyone more stubborn than Red, apart from himself. They’re probably as hard-headed as each other, evenly matched in their refusal to stay down, to give up. Red and his goddamned speeches about redemption and hope and second chances, yeah.

Frank’s not buying it. Not any of it.

He can see through the lies, the hypocrisy, the layers and layers of bullshit that can’t quite cover the truth: god doesn’t exist. There's nothing after death. Assholes will always be assholes. People don’t change. Just look at Red: whatever crap life throws at him, he always gets back up. Dusts his knees, cracks his knuckles, and gets back down to it. Just like Frank, except Frank doesn’t pretend to believe he’s gonna change anything. He knows that whoever he gets rid of, someone else will take their place. What he does can never end; it’s only a reprieve. A few drug-free weeks in this street, a new life for the enslaved he freed, before others are brought in and take their place. The wheel turns; the cycle goes on.

It’s endless. Humankind’s shit is endless. Frank doesn’t believe in a greater purpose, in good deeds, in salvation.

But Red does.

And Red, right now, in his not-quite-fitting day clothes, holding the white cane he doesn’t really need between his hands, is praying. He’s standing in front of an old, modest-looking grave; the headstone looks mossy from where Frank is, and he can’t read the name on it. All he can see are Murdock’s bent head and his tight, tense shoulders. Frank’s not sure what to do; Red’s probably clocked him and it would be rude to just walk away, _and_ rude to interrupt him.

Frank doesn’t really give a fuck about rude, not usually. But he’s just paid a visit to his wife, and this shit mattered to her. How many times did she say, _Be nice, Frank_ or _Smile to the neighbors, Frank_? What wouldn't he give to hear her tease him again… She always sent him to deal with whoever was knocking at the door when she didn’t want to see anyone, because she claimed he scared people off like she never could. So he smiled at Jenny next door, and scowled at Don of the Sunday morning lawn-mowing.

But he never will again. So he thinks of Maria, and of what she’d tell him to do, and he takes a few steps forward.

Now, all he can see is Hell’s Kitchen’s altar boy, standing over his dad’s grave and gripping the white cane in white-knuckled fists. There’s a small bunch of wilted flowers, but Frank doubts they’re from Red. Looks like his old man still has his fans. And, Frank thinks, he’s still got his son. Red’s still grieving, all these years later.

“Hey, Frank.” His voice is rough.

“Red.”

They stay there for a while, quiet. Altar boy’s rarely silent, and Frank finds it unnerving. It’s rare that they’re not arguing or fighting, each other or someone else or both at the same time, but then again when they meet it’s as Daredevil and the Punisher, not two guys in a gray cemetery under a gray sky.

Battlin’ Jack Murdock was a sight back in the day, but Frank doesn’t say that. He hesitates and finally settles for, “I saw him fight.”

Red’s head jerks up. “What?”

“My dad was a big boxing fan, took me to matches sometimes. I was there when he fought Creel.”

Shit, now Red’s looking like he’s about to keel over. “You _saw_ him?”

Aw, hell. Not only was he already a blind kid then, his dad was shot dead right after. _Smooth, Frank._ “Yeah.”

“How… how was it? The fight. Can you describe it?”

“It was a long time ago.”

Red’s face falls. “Oh. Oh, yes, of course. I understand.”

Ugh. “I meant I don’t remember the details. Just… your dad was scary, you know? He had this look in his eyes, like nothing could ever take him down. He punched hard, your dad.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I remember that.”

“You watched his fights?”

“Oh yes, plenty of times. And I heard him, after, you know.” Red waves a hand in front of his face. After he got blind, yeah.

“He was real good.”

“Yeah.”

Frank looks at Red. He can’t see his eyes; they’re hidden behind those stupid glasses. The glasses, his mask: Frank’s not a fool. He can tell what’s behind them. “He teach you?”

“No. No, he didn’t want me to. He wanted me to study, get a good job. He… he wouldn't like it. What I’m doing. It’s not what he wanted.”

“You’re a lawyer.”

“Yeah.”

“He’d be proud.”

“He didn’t want me to –”

“You’re not a kid anymore, Red; you make your own damn decisions. That’s what parents want, yeah? That's what we want for our kids.” That’s the point, right? They grow up too fast, sure. But he’ll never know what his little girl would have achieved, what kind of man his boy would have become. They’d have had a bit of Maria, a bit of him, and a whole lot of themselves. “You fight like him, you know.”

Red bites his lip, shakes his head. Shit, Frank doesn’t want to see him cry. “I told you, Frank. He didn’t teach me.”

“I heard you the first time. But you don’t stay down, you hit hard, you don’t back down. When you’re not doing your fancy ninja shit, you fall back on boxing. You’re your father's son, Red.”

Frank’s not sure why he feels the urge to say all of that, but it looks like it matters to Red. He turns his face down and wipes his cheeks, but there’s also a small smile on his face. “Yeah. Stick used to say I was too stuck into the past, that I’d never be a real warrior.”

“Stick?”

“Guy who trained me. He found me when I was at the orphanage.”

Frank’s stomach drops. “How old were you?”

“About eleven? He saved me, you know. I couldn't… He saved me from myself.”

“He trained you to be a warrior, at _eleven_?” Holy shit.

“Yeah, well. He was an asshole, too.” Frank’s fists curl. “He’s dead now.”

“Good.” Frank wishes he could kill the guy again for training little kids for a war, but what’s done is done. He forces his hands to relax, looks down at Red. “You look cold.”

“I’m fine.” He replies too quickly to actually mean it; it sounds like a rote answer to everything. But his face is blotchy, and his fingertips are turning red. He _is_ cold. It’s a damp fall, and the ground is covered in slippery leaves. It’s going to rain again soon and he doesn’t want to be still out then, have cold drops run down his neck, under his collar.

“Come on, I’ll drive you back to your place.”

“You don’t know where I live.”

“Hell’s Kitchen, yeah? It’s not that big.”

“Hey.” It’s a very mild protest; he’s even smiling a little. “I can take the subway.”

“How did you even get here?”

“Took a cab.”

“Right.” He bets Red hates the subway. Who doesn’t? “So, you coming?”

Frank can see him hesitate; he opens his mouth, closes it, twists it. “If you let me buy you dinner,” he eventually says. “As a thank you.”

“Fine by me.” He’s not going to turn down free food, you know?

It turns out Red knows a lot of places around the city where you can get cheap, good food. Nothing fancy, more like little holes in the wall that you wouldn't even know were there if no one told you. Maybe he can smell them. Anyway, Frank gets an education over the next few weeks.

“How many of those joints do you know, Red?”

Asshole smiles, all smug and pleased with himself. “All of them.”

“You ever cook your own food?” Every place they go they seem to know him, and they know what he's going to order; it’s suspicious is all.

“I can.”

“Not the question, Red.”

He shrugs. “Don’t really have time.”

Yeah, Frank can believe that. He’s got his day job, and he’s got his night job, and he probably tries to squeeze in some shuteye here and there. Not enough given the bags he’s got, badly covered by his glasses. “You should make some.”

“What now, are you my…” Red shakes his head. “Sorry. You’re not my handler, Frank.”

“It’s just common sense; a good fighter knows when to R&R.” Frank’s not his dad nor his handler, no, but he doesn’t want to see the guy disintegrate either. “You were sloppy today; you do that out there and someone’s gonna get you.”

“They can try.”

Frank sighs through his nose. What’s he supposed to say? After they met that time at the cemetery, Red asked if he wanted to see where Battlin’ Jack trained, and it turns out it’s also where Red himself works out. He knows the owner, has a key, and now they meet there once or twice a week, after hours or early in the morning, before it opens.

It’s good to spar, to have someone hold the bag for him. It’s obvious Red isn’t used to having a spotter or a training partner, but he adapts well enough. The gym is old, and it smells like an old gym too – leather and sweat and cleaner. The paint is flaking off, and there are posters of former glories on the walls. He wonders if Red knows about the Battlin’ Jack ones.

Frank spears his last bit of pancake and swirls it in syrup. “Something’s gotta give. You didn’t see me coming and I almost knocked you out.”

“I don’t see anything coming, Frank. Ever.” Jesus Christ. “And you didn’t.”

Because Frank twisted at the last second to avoid hitting Red full-on, but he doesn’t say that. It’s going to rile him up even more. “Just go home and sleep, yeah?”

“I can’t. It’s Sunday; I’m going to Mass.”

“God can do without you today, Red.”

“I _can’t_. I’m going to Mass, and then I promised to help the Sisters with some paperwork.”

“You can’t save everyone. You have a martyr complex or something?”

That shuts him up. He gapes a little, eyebrows raised, but then he speaks again. You can’t stop him from talking too long and that’s a shame, in Frank’s opinion. “You’re not the first person to say that.”

“Maybe because it’s true.”

“It’s not.” Red frowns into his coffee like it’s offended him, but Frank knows he’s right. Red’s burning the candle at both ends, and at the rate he’s going…

They shower at Fogwell’s after they work out, and he’s seen Red’s body. He’s lean, all long muscles and a physique that would make many Marines pale with envy. But he’s also covered in scars and bruises, old and new, and there are more than they should be, if he were more careful. Fresh cuts, tender ribs, black and blue and purple and green and yellow everywhere. He can’t see it, sure, but he's got to feel it.

“I bet your dad would be real disappointed if someone got you because you didn’t take care of yourself.”

“Fuck you,” Red says. He stands up, slaps a twenty on the table, and stalks out.

He’s pissed, but that’s good. Means Frank’s hit a nerve. He hopes he hit the right one.

He definitely hit a nerve, and it was the wrong one.

The same night, Frank sees Red’s out and about, and he’s not wearing the Kevlar-reinforced outfit. His buddy Nelson got his suit guy out of jail and, from what Frank understands, guilted Red into wearing it, but tonight… tonight, the idiot is out to prove _something_ , so he’s only wearing his thin pajamas and stupid ropes.

And then the following night.

And again the night after that.

So Frank keeps an eye on him.

Red’s like his dad, yeah. He’s stubborn, he’s strong, he hits hard and he won’t stay down. But he also likes death a little too much, for someone who’s got shit to live for. Frank… well, Frank doesn’t really have anything left. He’s doing what’s right, until someone gets him. Red though, he’s got his day job and his friends and a whole life he can live in the daytime. Most people would consider Matt Murdock, Hell’s Kitchen lawyer, a busy guy, but they don’t know half of it. Frank does.

And what Frank can see right now is a guy who’s daring anyone to try and get him, while he’s being even more reckless than usual. He thinks he needs to be out every night so people feel safer, so shitbags think twice before attacking anyone. The truth is Frank can see his landings aren’t as precise as usual, can see when he fumbles his jump to another roof. The guy’s exhausted, and he’s digging his own grave.

Something’s gotta give, yeah.

He catches up to Red near the docks, on the roof of a Walgreens. Frank can’t see anything happening there, but maybe that’s the point. Red wouldn't let him come close if he thought anything he wanted to deal with on his own was about to happen.

“Why are you following me?”

Frank shrugs. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

“So you’ve come to lecture me?”

“You almost missed that ledge back there. You’re not a hundred percent.”

“I need to be _seen_ and you know it!”

“What anyone’s seeing right now is a guy who’s not at the top of his game. You’ve drawn a big target on your back tonight, is what you’ve done.”

“So what? What’s it to you?” Red shoves Frank back, gets in his face. “Maybe it’s all part of my plan; maybe I’m trying to lure them in. Did you think of that? And now it’s all for nothing, because you showed up.”

Frank catches Red’s wrists when he makes to shove him again. “Can it, Red; there’s no one. Go home, yeah?”

“No.”

His wrists feel thin and breakable in Frank’s grip, and there’s a fine tremor coursing through them. He doesn’t know if it’s rage or exhaustion or cold. Maybe it’s all of it. “If you need a workout, we can do that.”

“I don’t need a workout; I need to help people.”

Someone screams in the distance and Red’s head turns to it, but then there’s laughter and drunken shouts. He doesn’t relax, though. He’s still on high alert. “You could hit a bag until you can’t stand anymore.” Maybe he’d sleep, then.

“Is that what you do? Hit things, shoot things until you can rest, then start all over again?”

“Sometimes.” He’s tried hammering down walls; he’s tried killing assholes. Some things work better than others, he’s found.

“I’m not going to shoot anyone.”

“I know.”

“I don’t kill, Frank.”

“Yeah, I know. But you’re going to kill yourself, if you go on like that.” He hopes that’s not what Red’s doing, but as he said, Red’s his father’s son. Suicide by proxy, for stupid reasons, for _pride_ … yeah. Frank bets Battlin’ Jack would kick his kid’s ass if he could see this.

“I’m not –” then Red tackles him and bullets whiz past just above them.

They scramble behind a chimney stack, and Frank gets a gun out. “Where?” he asks.

“You’re not going after them.”

“The hell I’m not.”

“They’re kids.”

“They’re shooting at us!”

A loud voice booms from not too far away; it’s angry but Frank can’t make out any words. Then there’s quiet again.

“You can put your gun away, now.”

“What was that?”

“I told you, kids. Stole some guns, thought they’d play with them, got caught. I don’t think they saw us; they probably just aimed at… hm, that’s a water tower, right?” He points at the huge tank on the other side of the roof they’re on.

“Yeah.”

Red smiles a bit too smugly. “Knew it.”

“Shut up, Red. And what kind of idiot lets kids steal guns?”

“Let it go; no one got hurt.”

Frank sighs. “This time.” But he’s not in a mood to argue, so he stands up and holds out a hand for Red, who of course ignores it. “C’mon, let’s call it a night, yeah?”

Red frowns. “You can if you want to. I’m not.”

“Look, just… let’s go find some food, okay? Must be some place that’s open. Least I can do, right?”

“Why?”

“I'd have ended up with some extra holes if you hadn't pushed me out of the way. I owe you one.”

But Red only shrugs. “I don’t want you dead, Frank.”

Well, that sure feels like a ringing endorsement. Not that he cares. “I don’t want you dead either.”

“You getting all sweet on me now?”

Frank smiles; this reminds him of an old chat. “Marines don’t go after death like you do, Red.”

“I don’t…” He shakes his head. “There’s an all-night diner two blocks from here. But I can’t stroll in looking like this,” he says with a wave at himself.

“Just take off the ropes and that thing on your head.”

“They could recognize me.”

“I thought that was why you had a mask, Red.”

“No, I meant Matt Murdock, the blind guy.”

Aw, shit, better not risk it. Well, there goes the plan. Frank sticks his hands in his coat pockets, looks up at the sky. It’s never fully dark here, and you can’t see the stars. Not like out in the desert. He doesn’t want to leave Red on his own right now, wants to make sure he isn’t going to get himself killed tonight. “What about going for a few bouts in that gym of yours?”

“It’s not mine.”

“Whatever. What do you say?”

Red tilts his head; he’s quiet for a moment. “You’re right; I don’t think I’m needed out here tonight. We can meet at Fogwell’s tomorrow, after it closes for the day, if you want.”

 _Good enough_ , Frank thinks. “Sure.”

He watches Red leap over the roof ledge onto the fire escape, and from there to the metal stairs opposite. He’s showing off, trying to prove he won’t fall. Frank looks until he can’t see him anymore, and then he leaves the roof. He’s not going to spend all his nights babysitting Red.

Red’s already stretching when Frank gets to Fogwell’s. He throws his bag on a bench, changes into loose workout clothes, and starts warming up. He does some bodyweight exercises while Red prefers some yoga-like shit, and holding poses that look painful without breaking a sweat.

They don’t speak; they don’t need to. They rarely do. Red’s now moved on to punching and kicking the bag; it swings and creaks and Frank times his pushups with the dull thumps of Red’s blows. They move on to pads; Frank holding them as high as he can sometimes and Red doing some fancy backflips just because he can, not that Frank’s impressed.

But what they both like best is when they put on some gloves and get in the ring. Red is in his element, light on his feet and grinning around his mouth guard. The first time Frank faced him like this, he was thrown by how different and yet the same Red looked: night Red hides half his face; he wears long sleeves, heavy boots. This Red wears a sleeveless top and shorts or sometimes sweats, and Frank can’t see in his blind eyes where he’ll hit next. His hair stands up in sweaty clumps; the muscles move under the skin of his arms, his shoulders. It’s disconcerting. But both Reds have the same cocky smile, the same taunting words. _Bet you can’t hit me, Frank. I’ll go easy on you, Frank._

Yeah, no.

This is supposed to be a box-only bout, and Frank can see how Red has to rein in the instinct to use his legs, his knees; he wants to slam an elbow in Frank’s face or maybe try to wrestle him down into a lock, but Frank doesn’t let him. Finally, he’s got an in – that slight hesitation as Red’s leg twitches, and he’s got him. Tackles him around the waist, throws him down to the mat, pins him. Red snarls, tries to twist out from under Frank, and finally spits his guard out.

“You’re cheating!”

Frank’s guard joins Red’s. “You tried to Muay Thai me out.”

“But I didn't!”

“Yeah, well. Not gonna take the risk and let you win.”

Red’s lip curls, and he does a thing that leaves Frank flat on his back while Red dances away, fists up. Frank didn’t see it coming, and he should have. He jumps back to his feet and goes after Red, blocking a few kicks now all bets are off, until he finally has him against the ropes. _Too easy_ , he thinks, but then he sees the way Red is slowing down, hears how hard he’s panting.

“We’re done for tonight,” he says.

“Says who?” Red tries to shove him back. “You just don’t want me to beat you.”

Frank narrowly evades some fancy leg trick and takes a step back, but Red doesn’t leave the ropes. He’s really leaning against them, and it doesn’t look like he’s going to use them to launch himself, wrestling-style. His chest is going up and down; his face is flushed. He tilts his head back a little, and Frank’s eyes follow the line of his jugular, down the collarbone to that dip between throat and chest. The skin is damp with sweat. He looks away.

“I’m going to do some stretches,” he says, and he gets off the ring. He needs to cool down.

“You just can’t take me,” Red sing-songs, but Frank ignores him. He focuses on his hamstrings, then his hip flexors, his shoulders, his calves, his biceps and his triceps. He can hear Red moving around, but he _doesn’t look_. After a while, though, Red speaks again. “Want to wash up before I lock up the place again?”

Ah, shit. Yes, he wants to wash up. No, he doesn’t want to get naked right next to Red. “Yeah, sure.” What else is he supposed to say?

Red shucks his clothes like he doesn’t give a shit about Frank being here, and maybe he doesn’t. Frank keeps his eyes on his bag, takes his sweats off, and grabs a towel and soap before following Red into the cramped showers. You can’t change the temperature and the water’s hot and on a timer, but Frank would like it to be cold. Ice cold. He’s annoyed at himself, annoyed that he can’t stop thinking of Red’s flushed skin, the scars there, the way he grunts when he hits the bag real hard.

“You going out tonight?” Red asks.

“No. You?”

“I think I will, yeah.”

Frank finally looks over. “Things have been quiet and you know it. Take a break; you’ll want to be ready when it ramps up again.”

“I’m always ready.” Red crouches to pick up his bottle of shower gel, and his head is dangerously close to Frank’s crotch. He turns his face up, and Frank watches the water drip down his flattened hair to his nose, his cheekbones, his mouth. “You alright, Frank?”

“Yeah.” Shit, his voice is all raspy now.

Red stands up and is suddenly very close, leaning into Frank. “You sound weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Like you’re… angry, or, I don’t know.”

“I’m cool.” He isn’t.

And Red smirks. “You’re not hurt, are you? I didn’t hurt you?”

Frank scoffs. “Dream on.”

But then Red’s fingertips land on a still-healing cut, a knife that went for his throat and that he deflected with his arm two days ago. “This is hot.”

Frank gulps. “Hot?”

“It’s a few days old, right?”

“Yeah.” Damn, he sounds like he’s been gargling sand now.

“Hm.” Red’s fingers don’t leave his skin; they travel up the arm, to the shoulder, to an older scar. “What’s that?”

“Uh.” He clears his throat. “Crossbow bolt.” The water’s stopped, but the room is still filled with steam. Frank wants to leave, but he’s rooted to the spot. He tries to look away from Red’s face, but he ends up looking at his chest. “What’s that one, under your shoulder?”

Shit, that lopsided grin. _Shit_. “I have several.” Red takes Frank’s hand, and puts it on his own skin. _Jesus fucking Christ_. “Show me.”

“I, uh.” But he complies. Frank’s fingers glide on the wet skin, until he finds that particular scar. “That one.”

“Arrow. Poisoned arrow, even.”

“Who did you piss off, that time?”

Red’s smirk falls a bit. “Many people; it’s a long story.” He doesn’t want to talk about it, and Frank won’t push. “What about that one?” Red asks, his hands over another scar.

“Bayonet.” Frank’s fingertips move to a jagged line under Red’s collarbone; it’s got a twin on the other side, and two other ones near the hip bones. They’re the same faded color. “That one?”

“Kyoketsu-shoge.”

“Looks like it was bad.”

“Yeah,” Red breathes out. He moves his hand on Frank’s chest, finds another reminder of his days in the Marines. “Those?”

“Shrapnel.”

Red’s lips are barely parted, and his voice is low as he keeps mapping Frank’s body – his scars. Just the scars. Which he has to find by touch, because he’s blind. No other reason; he’s just curious. It’s fine. The steam is slowly fading, but the cooling air doesn’t do anything that Frank wants it to do. He can feel his dick growing heavier, and he’s careful not to look down. He doesn’t want to know about Red’s. He doesn’t care. It’s nothing; it’s just proximity. It’s just –

“What about that one?” Red asks, and his hand is on Frank’s ass.

He needs a moment before finding his voice. “Uh, bullet.”

Red… chuckles. Like they do in romance novels that Maria pretended she didn’t read. Frank feels hot all over. “You got shot in the _ass_?”

“It was a ricochet.”

“Aw, that must, uh, suck.”

Really? _Really?_ Frank is careful not to take a deep breath; Red is too close, but he grits his teeth and shoves the goddamn tease back. His hands somehow landed on Red’s hips, but it only means he gets a good grip to push him away and – he jerks his hands away like Red’s skin is on fire.

“Just… don’t,” Frank says.

Red blinks at him, almost pouts. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Something is. I thought you were…” He waves a hand.

“Where do you think this is going?”

“Well –”

“What do you expect from this?”

“I –”

“Look, I think I prefer working out alone. See you around, Red.”

Frank leaves. He leaves the showers, he leaves the locker room, he leaves the gym. He leaves Red behind. He doesn’t look back, but he doesn’t hear Red move out of the showers before Frank himself makes it out of Fogwell’s, clothes sticking to his still-damp skin. He doesn’t care.

He’s not going to check on what the idiot does tonight; he’s not going to check on any other night either. Maybe they’ll end up going after the same assholes, butt heads about methods again, but they’re not… friends. Or whatever that was back there. What was Red thinking?

No, not Red, Murdock. Red wore clothes; Red he could fight or work with. He will, sooner or later, and when that happens he doesn’t want to think about today. He’ll have a job to do then, and that’s what he’ll focus on. It’s what he’s got left, what makes him get back out every day: doing his part. Make this place safer, take the lowlifes out.

Yeah, that’s what he’s going to do.

Of course, nothing ever goes according to plan.

Not in Frank’s life, anyway.

Red finds him only a week later, and in Frank’s opinion this is way too early. He hasn’t managed to separate Red and his stupid costumes from naked Re– _Murdock_. The idiot drops down from the stairs above his head and the only skin showing is his part of his face and his fingertips, poking out of the mass of rope around his hands and wrists. How long does it take to tie it all up? Frank’s not going to ask, obviously. None of his business, and it’s stupid anyway.

Red stands up, bends his head forward a little, and keeps quiet. It’s unnerving.

“What do you want?” Frank asks.

“Hi, Frank.” He’s doing the pose, the one with the elbows slightly out and shoulders a bit forward like he’s a bull ready to charge. He doesn’t look like that when it’s only him and Frank, when they’re not fighting, or he didn’t use to. Maybe something's changed. Maybe he wants to fight Frank.

“I got places to be, Red.”

“You’re just doing recon tonight.”

“You following me?”

“Don’t need to; you’re not carrying a lot. Not enough for something you’d have planned.”

“What’s it to you?”

Red shrugs, and he seems to loosen up a bit. “Nothing.” Frank waits; Red wants something. “I, uh, someone gave me this thumb drive.” Then he’s quiet again.

“What’s it got to do with me?” Frank finally asks.

“It’s pictures.”

“So?” Ah, shit. “You want me to look at them?”

“Could you?”

“Why me?” He could ask Karen, or his lawyer buddy.

Red shifts a bit on his feet; he’s… he’s embarrassed, looks like. “I have no idea what’s on them; the guy just said I’d know what to do and then left.”

So he doesn’t want Nelson to worry, or Karen to run into something headfirst; he’d rather do that himself. Frank can relate, even as he wants to shake him for not trusting his friends. They made the choice to keep him around, yeah? If they can deal with the danger he chooses to be in, he should accept they can make that choice for themselves too. Frank sighs, and holds out his hand. “Give it here, I’ll look at it and call you.”

“I don’t want to leave it with you. My informant said… I can’t.”

“Yes, well, your informant doesn’t know you can’t use his intel. We can go to your place; you got a computer, yeah?”

“It’s not set up for that, for pictures. It’s going to talk at you and… even Foggy doesn’t like it, and he’s used it before. We can use the one in Fogwell’s office; it’s three blocks from here.”

That gym again. Frank doesn’t want to go back there, but the other option is taking Red to his place and that’s not going to happen. “Fine. You’ll owe me, Red.”

“Yeah, well. You made it clear you don’t want what’s on offer. Guess you can hit me up if you need a lawyer.” Red turns and starts walking, and Frank’s eyes fall to his ass. Which is on offer, and which Frank turned down. He grits his teeth and steers his eyes back up.

“I don’t remember you doing a great job of it the last time.”

“I don’t remember you cooperating,” Red retorts.

He’s not wrong; Frank did his best to tank the trial, and Karen told him a bit of what was actually going on behind the scenes. A real clusterfuck, yeah. “It was a shitty time.”

Red doesn’t reply and they make their way back to Fogwell’s silently, avoiding the bigger streets where they could be seen. They slip in and Red points at a room with a glass door at the back; it’s not locked and yes, there’s an old desktop computer there. Frank fires it up and waits as it whirs and beeps.

“Where’s that drive?” Red hands it to him, and Frank opens it. “Uh,” he says.

“What?”

“There’s a bunch of pictures, yeah, but it’s all of that place on 40th Street, you know the one?”

“The four-story building with all the undocumented families?”

“Yeah.” So far the city services have been ignoring it; there’s been neither ICE crackdown nor help sent their way. The building is old and badly needs upkeep; as far as Frank knows, it’s part of some shady housing scheme but the folks there aren’t squeezed for money either. Maybe it’s some diaspora thing, only shady because they’re flying under the radar.

“Can you see anything… wrong?”

“Nah. Just kids doing homework, people having a cookout on the roof. Building’s in a shitty state, but that’s all I can see.”

“Fire hazard? Gas leaks?”

“You can’t see gas leaks, Red.”

“ _Frank_.”

He rolls his eyes, even if only for his own benefit. “It’s sure breaking safety rules, yeah. But no crime that I can see. People look happy. I don’t know what your guy wants you to do; kick them out?”

“That’s not what I do.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe they need a lawyer.”

“Then your informant would have gone to Matt Murdock, not… you.”

Red pushes his mask up and points at his face. “You do know that’s me, right?”

Frank looks away; it’s not a face he wants to look at. “ _He_ doesn’t. And Daredevil is associated with your firm.”

“I’ll go see them tomorrow.”

“As Murdock?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.” Frank clicks through the pictures one last time, but there’s really nothing much to see: people living their lives, parents with their kids, some older folks. Children playing in the street below, cracked bricks, rusty iron on the fire escape. He shuts the computer down and holds the drive out. “Here you go, then. Knock yourself out saving them, altar boy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You can’t always get what you want.”

“Sometimes you can, Frank. Sometimes you can.”

Frank pretends he doesn’t understand what Red means. It’s better that way.

Frank keeps out of the Kitchen for the next few weeks, and he avoids Manhattan when he can just to be safe. He has other places to be, shitbags to hunt down; same old same old. He does what he’s got to do.

He hears about the attorneys defending undocumented immigrants who fled their homes because of climate change. Nelson and Murdock are working for that to qualify them for a right to stay here; they want to create a legal precedent and Frank wishes them luck. Global warming isn’t something he can shoot to kill. Red of course, Red will fight anything and anyone, even the impossible. He’ll fight god if he has to; he doesn’t care. Maybe he can do something as a lawyer. They’re apparently also trying to petition the city to provide them with better, safer housing; it’s working. Little by little, Frank reads, the building empties and the people are provided with homes without lead paint, asbestos, leaky gas pipes, and jury-rigged electricity.

Good on him. Good for them.

Frank twists the dial on his old radio and leaves it on some classic rock station; he doesn’t want to hear anything more about Red.

One night though, he’s got to drive down to the piers not far from the Javits Center; some assholes are expecting a shipment of illegal weapons, and Frank’s planning a welcome committee of one. He’s ready, perched in a sniper’s nest up on a nearby building. He’s probably going to have to get down and get his hands dirty at one point, but he can even the odds before getting all up close and personal.

The ship never gets there. Half an hour after he gets ready to shoot them from above, he hears sirens and fire trucks nearby; it’s not just one, it’s ten, twenty. There are helicopters circling around now, and Frank knows they won’t risk unloading when the likelihood of being found out is so high. He packs his rifle and goes to the other end of the roof; from there he can see where all the police cars’ flashing lights and choppers’ spotlights are aimed at.

It’s Red’s building. Not his place; the one that was on the pictures, with all the families.

Frank swears and runs down the stairs; he throws his rifle case in the van he’d parked a couple blocks out and dodges the blockades that the NYPD is putting up; he’s no Red but he knows how to get past those. And he knows, too, that Red’s going to be here, trying some idiotic hero shit.

Flames are coming out of the top floor’s windows when he gets there; officers are trying to keep the crowd away but they’re pushing back, screaming. Terrified. He can see the horror on a woman’s face, and he can’t understand what she’s saying but he knows what the face says: her kid’s in there. Her kid’s in there, and the firefighters coming out just now are carrying out an older guy and a dog but no kid. They’re taking both to the ambulances right as a chunk of roof falls down; Frank can see a firefighter shake their head.

They’re not going back in.

The ladders are rolled back and the woman is howling; her people are holding her back and the fire hoses are blasting the building, but no one’s coming out of there alive now. Frank shakes his head. Some folks were still living there, in spite of Red’s efforts; he’s going to beat himself up over it. Except Frank can’t see Red anywhere, although he’s scanning all the rooftops around; he’s got to be here somewhere but even if he’d gone in, he’d have gone _out_ by now, right? He’s not suicidal. Frank’s throat tightens. Not actively suicidal, maybe; but… he closes his eyes.

He’s been an idiot himself, pretending he doesn’t want, shouldn’t want Red. He does. And there’s no reason he shouldn't, not really. Just his own cowardice. It doesn’t have to be anything big; it doesn’t have to mean anything. Or it can. But it might be too late now, all that’s left a bunch of might-have-beens, because he’s a coward.

The smell of burning things, hot metal, steam, sweat, the noises of the fire, the cracking and slowly collapsing building, the shouts, the hoses, the sirens, the helicopters…

The crowd surges around Frank, and his eyes snap open. A figure is running out of the building, out of a door that burst open earlier; all Frank can see in the doorway is fire, red and yellow. No one in their right mind should have gone in, and no one could have gone out.

But a man _is_ running out, holding a bundle of – a baby, he’s holding a baby, trailing sparks and smoke and one arm is bright red, the shirt torn or burnt away. He’s still wearing his stupid mask, low over his entire face as some weak protection against the soot and smoke. The woman rips away from the crowd and runs forward, crying and sobbing and shouting; the medics are falling all over Red and the baby, and Frank can’t see them anymore.

Shit, he can’t see Red – he pushes through, elbows people out, fights against a police officer who tries to control the crowd –

“You?”

Frank looks up. “Mahoney.”

“What are you doing here? You know these people?”

“The guy, where’s the guy?”

Mahoney glances behind him and finally, Frank sees him. He pushes a medic away when she goes to remove his mask then he tries to get up again; he’s a bit wobbly. “Take him off my hands before we have to unmask him, all right? And get him first aid, Castle.”

Frank nods and extracts Red from the bunch of medics and grateful people trying to thank him. Red looks lost and overwhelmed; he jumps when Frank grabs the arm that looks unburnt and doesn’t seem to recognize him until he says, “You’re coming with me.”

“I…”

Frank yanks, and Red stumbles after him; Mahoney tells the family he’ll send their thanks to Daredevil and orders some other cops to let them through; Frank’s pretty sure most recognize Red – well, Daredevil, they call him – and some Frank himself, but no one stops them. It’s all that matters.

When they reach a quieter spot though, Red seems to wake up. He turns away from Frank and takes a step back to the fire, but he seems disoriented and walks into a car.

“The hell you doing?”

“There’s people in there; I’ve got to…”

“You can’t stand straight; you’re not going anywhere.”

“The fire, the people…”

“You barely got out; what’s your plan, go back in and die?”

“I…”

“Don’t you value your own life?”

“You’re one to talk.” He falls more than sits on the curb, his head against the body of a delivery van. “I have to…” He loses the thread of what he’s trying to say, but it doesn't matter. Frank knows what he’s trying to say, and it’s stupid.

“No you don’t. You did good out there but now you got to stand down, alright?”

“But…”

Frank kneels in front of Red; he wants to shake him. “How you even managed that little stunt, I don’t know. Come on, I’ll take you home. And you need, shit, I don’t know, oxygen? And your arm got burnt.” Where is he going to find oxygen?

“Not home.”

“What?”

“Not here. Smells like fire. Everything's on fire; I can’t…” He coughs, then vomits. “The _smell_ ,” he rasps.

Frank looks up, then back at Red. He knows a guy in the Bronx, friend of Curt’s; they’ll stop there before going to Frank’s. “Fine.”

He half-carries Red back to his van, stopping several times on the way to let him dry-heave and cough; Frank wants to know how he’s managed not to die, but it’ll have to wait. Once he’s hauled Red up in the seat, he shoves a bottle of Gatorade in his hands and tells him to drink; Red pushes it away, but Frank snarls at him and it seems to work. For now, at least.

He gets in the driver’s seat, turns the key in the ignition, then glances over at Red. The mask is conspicuous; a guy half-passed out in the middle of the night is more invisible than a masked guy. He takes it off and Red tries to bat Frank’s hand away, without success.

Frank drives as fast as he can without going fast enough that he’d get cops after him; Red’s coughing and lethargy are worrying him. Harry’s good, but his backroom isn’t a hospital; he’s just a guy who will do what he can under the radar, as long as you’re willing to pay. He never asks Frank to pay the full price, and above all he doesn’t ask questions. Still, Frank makes sure the mask is back in place before they leave the van.

“Ah,” Harry says when he opens the door. “The fire down in Manhattan, yes?”

Frank nods and helps him put Red on the long table; when Harry tries to take the mask off Frank shakes his head.

“I need to check his eyes.”

“No concussion.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“Leave the mask.”

Harry’s mouth purses, but he stops trying to remove the mask and Frank leans against the wall as he waits. He checks the news; apparently no one died after all, and the kid should be fine, somehow. Red will be happy to hear it. He puts his phone away and watches Harry work; doc doesn’t seem too worried. He sets an IV, puts a cannula under Red’s nose, cleans and wraps the arm, listens to Red’s lungs some more, and in thirty more minutes he’s done.

“Bring him back tomorrow if you can; I’d like to check the lungs again, but you’re good to go. He’s lost a lot of fluids, so have him drink a lot.” He gives him some packets of electrolytes to add to water, Frank slaps some bills in his hand, and then it’s only a short drive to his place.

It’s a small two-bedroom apartment with a cramped kitchen and second- or third-hand furniture, but it gets the job done. The larger bedroom is for some exercise equipment; he’s got some weights and a bench. He also stockpiles the gear he uses the most in there, and there’s a chest full of ammo and grenades. It’s not like he needs a guest room.

As soon as they’re inside, Red tears his mask off and starts fighting against his clothes; Frank stops him and shoves him on a chair.

“What is it?”

“The smell,” he says. “I need to take it off, wash it off, I…”

Ah. Right. “Bathroom’s to your left.”

Red falls off the chair instead of standing, and Frank catches him under the armpits; they make it to the bathroom, and Red starts retching over the toilet. He’s spitting soot, but not much else.

“You should drink something, Red. You’re dehydrated.” The IV might have helped, but it wasn’t enough. “Don’t move.”

He goes to the kitchen, mixes a packet of powder in a glass of water, grabs some cling wrap, and comes back to find a half-naked Red sitting in the shower and fighting with his boots.

“Drink this,” he says, but Red pushes it away.

“Everything stinks,” he grits out. “Won’t keep it down.”

“That why you’re doing a striptease right now?”

“Fuck you.”

Frank takes a deep breath before replying. “Wasn’t complaining.”

Hah, that shuts him up. Frank uses the sudden stillness to make quick work of the boots, socks, and belt, and Red gets back online just enough to help with his pants. He doesn’t react when Frank wraps the cling film around the dressing on his arm either. His skin looks thin, his eyes sunken; the bathroom’s single light bulb isn’t doing him any favors, especially now.

“C’mon, let me in,” Frank says. He shucks his own clothes and walks over Red’s legs to reach the shower’s controls, and frigid water hits them.

Red shrieks in shock, and Frank laughs. They’ll be okay, he thinks. They’ll be okay.

Once they’re both mostly dry, Frank goes back to trying to get Red to drink some more. It’s a challenge; Red is half-asleep and uncooperative.

Not quite Red now, too. He’s wearing Frank’s old sweats, slightly too big on him, and he’s appropriated the blanket Frank leaves on the couch for when he sleeps there, on the nights the bed is too comfortable. Too soft. His hair is a still-damp mess, and it’s going to be spectacular in the morning; Frank is looking forward to making fun of it. But for now, what he wants is for Red, for _Murdock_ , to drink some goddamn water, and Murdock is being difficult. He downed the first glass, but now he’s impersonating a lump on the sofa while Frank freezes his ass off on the floor.

“You got to get some fluids in, yeah? The doc said so. You’re still dehydrated.”

“M’tired. Sleep.”

“Yeah, you’ll sleep. But you gotta drink first.”

“Whaddaya care anyway,” Murdock mumbles.

Frank leans forward and pulls the blanket down a little. “You know better than to ask.”

The lump’s hand yanks the blanket back up, and Frank doesn’t smile. Then he smiles, because hey, Murdock’s blind; he won’t see it. Probably. Maybe? Hopefully. Who knows, with the guy.

“Murdock,” he tries again.

The lump moves. “Didn’t think you knew my name.”

“Course I know your name; don’t be stupid.”

“Never use it.”

“I am now.”

Some tectonic shit happens again under the blanket, then: “Your couch sucks.”

“Yeah?”

“Lumpy.”

Frank feels his grin widens; he can’t help it. “I got a perfectly good bed twenty feet away.”

This time, he can see Murdock’s whole face. “ _Your_ bed?”

“It’s the only bed.”

“You?”

“It’s _my_ bed, too. We can share; it’s big enough.”

Murdock looks a bit more awake, now. “You sure?”

“Just make up your mind, yeah? I’m not spending the night on the floor, I can tell you that.”

He watches Murdock sit up and rub his face, then shoves the tall glass in his hand when he’s about to stand up.

“Nuh uh. Drink.”

“Bossy.”

Yeah, well. Frank’s got to be, when someone’s an idiot.

The dressing on Murdock’s arm is peeking out from under the sleeve when he raises the glass, and he makes a face when he bends the elbow.

“I got some painkillers, if you want.”

“I’m fine.”

“I saw your arm. It was very red.”

Murdock’s eyebrows rise up. “ _Red_.”

“Mm hm.”

“I don’t mind, you know. When you call me that.”

Well, good; Frank doesn’t mind either. He takes the glass back and leaves it on the shitty coffee table behind him.

“Frank.”

“Yeah?”

“Think it’s going to scar?”

“What, your arm?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know, Red. Does it matter?”

“At least it’s not my face.”

“Hey, chicks dig scars, right?”

“They’re a bit much for a blind lawyer, I think.”

“Some people know you’re more than that.” Red pushes up and finally stands; he’s none too steady and Frank stays close. “Bedroom’s to your nine o’clock,” he adds. He’s not sure how alert Murdock is right now, how aware of his surroundings.

“Thanks.” Red shuffles there and sits on the bed; he seems a bit lost for a moment. He tilts his head, maybe listening to the room. “I don’t think that's true,” he says after a while. “That chicks dig scars.”

“Yeah, probably not.” He remembers how worried Maria looked when she found new ones. “But you’re still pretty, scars and all.”

“Frank.” Murdock’s fingers worry the hem of his sweatshirt; he’s hesitant. “Frank, I can’t tell what you want.”

Ah. That’s the question, isn’t it? He knows what he wants, but still – something holds him back. When he sees Red like that, open, trusting, vulnerable… his doubts rush back in. What’s Frank got to offer? Every morning he wakes up feeling like this is it, this is the day someone gets the better of him. A bullet gets him. And yet… he wants. “You could do better,” he finally says.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I got.” He sits next to Murdock, their shoulders and knees touching. “I can’t make promises. I don’t look at the future; I won’t stop doing what I do.”

“I know.”

“I don’t get it, then.”

Murdock shrugs. “I don’t either. It’s not something to get; it just is.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Red’s the one with the degrees and the faith, not Frank. “No promises, Red.”

“No promises.”

But somehow their foreheads find each other, and when he opens his eyes again Frank can see a small smile on Red’s lips.

They go to the cemetery the following Sunday.

Frank picks him up after Mass, because Red _is_ an altar boy, and Frank manages to evade traffic on the way. It’s cold up here, and even the fall colors and still mostly green grass doesn’t make it any less full of death. Quiet death, but still death. This is not a battlefield; this is what comes after.

They first stop at Battlin’ Jack’s grave; there are fresh flowers on it today. The grave was cleaned, too. Someone comes here who’s not Red.

“Hi, dad,” he says. The headstone doesn’t reply, of course.

There’s a bit of wind, and red and yellow leaves blow past their legs; some get stuck at the grave’s foot. Red doesn’t look like last time; he looks at peace. Frank’s happy for him.

“You know, for a long time, I hero-worshiped him. I thought he’d been so brave and strong, and I missed him so much. He’d been my everything, and then he died.” Red’s hand finds his, and their fingers twine together. “Later, I saw things differently. I thought he’d chosen honor over me, that I hadn’t been enough. I thought he’d been a coward, too.”

Frank moves his thumb on Red’s skin; he doesn’t know what to say. He can’t imagine making the choice Battlin’ Jack did, but he never was in his shoes either: a single dad struggling to make ends meet, even taking money to lose fights, and with a smart, blind kid at home who worshiped the ground he walked on.

“Then,” Red continues, “I realized… maybe he thought _he_ wasn’t enough. Maybe he couldn't find a way out of the deals he’d had to make. I think he was very alone, you know? He did the best he could, and I figure he didn’t want me to remember him as a loser. He bet on himself and made a bit of money. It helped me, when I started college. He died thinking he was doing the right thing, in the long run.”

 _Pride_. Frank sees it in the son, too. He can’t say he doesn’t understand. “Money’s not a father.”

“No.” Red sighs. “I miss him.”

They stand there a bit longer, the pile of leaves growing where the stone stops them. Frank reckons there’s a story behind the flowers, but it can wait. He’s patient. His hand is warm in Red’s, and the sky is a clear blue. It’s a good day to remember.

“Frank.”

“Yeah?”

“Would you tell me about your family?”

Yeah. Yeah, he would. He will. They’re not far from here. “Let’s pay them a visit,” he says.

They walk between the rows of graves, holding hands all the way. It’s a peaceful day under the sun, a quiet moment when they can share memories of those they loved. He and Red, their lives are too full of blood and violence and pain; they fight too much, they risk too much every day, not to take the good when it comes. You’ve got to take that jump; you’ve got to take it with both hands and never let go, because it could all be torn away anytime.

Memories hurt, Frank knows, but they’re better than regrets.


End file.
